“School starts in a month, so I may need a note or something.”
It was hard to tell, but he might have been blushing.
“You know, it actually didn’t occur to me school would be an issue. I obviously can’t get in the way of that.”
“Sure you can. This sounds way more fun.”
“I… okay, we’ll figure that out if we need to. You’ll, um… you’ll also need to keep my cover, which will mean a little… lying. I already feel uncomfortable asking you to do that.”
“Your cover as a reporter.”
“Right.”
“Let me explain something right off. Nobody’s going to believe you, especially if you went and saw the ship today like you were supposed to. Not that it will make a huge difference.”
“I don’t understand.”
“If you build up a good, solid lie, you’ll be fine. They won’t believe you, but they’ll answer your questions anyway. You just can’t half-ass the lie or they’ll think you’re insulting them. Who do you write for?”
“Well I’m not really writing for anyone.”
“You’re never going to pull this off, Ed. Good God.”
“Ahh, okay. The New Yorker?”
“Noo, no. Nobody’s going to talk to someone from the New Yorker in Massachusetts. Follow baseball sometime. Try again.”
“I, um…”
“Okay, here’s what you say: you’re writing a feature article on spec for the Atlantic Monthly. General Morris is your… let’s go with uncle. He pulled some strings to get you onto the base and up close and personal with the ship.”
“I’ve been meaning to ask, how did you know we were doing that?”
“Edgar, everyone knows everything in this town. So you’re using your connections with Morris to get the kind of story nobody’s written before, and that’s why the Atlantic is interested in a spec piece from somebody who has no bylines in their own name. You’re probably going to have to come up with a plausible backstory on how you’re a thirty year old writer with no credits, too.”
“You make it sound like I have to prep for a background check.”
“That’s exactly right. I checked up on you already. Took me about ten minutes to decide you weren’t a reporter.”
“You got my age wrong.”
That’s because I’m guessing, because you have no public profile, and that’s exactly my point. You can either build that profile tonight—it won’t stand up—or come up with why you don’t have one. Why, how old are you?”
“Thirty-four, but you had me looking younger, I’ll take the compliment.”
“Don’t let it go to your head, I’m only sixteen.”
“When do you turn seventeen, exactly? Just so I know when I can stop hearing you say that over and over.”
“Not for another four months. Are you gay?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll probably keep saying it, sorry.”
THEY WENT BACK inside to rescue General Morris from Annie’s mother, or perhaps the other way around. Both appeared reasonably uncomfortable to have been left alone, especially when they probably could hear Ed and Annie arguing.
Morris had a number of documents for them to sign. According to the general, it was the same basic documentation the army used when putting translators on the payroll on foreign soil. This actually made Annie laugh out loud.
The whole thing took about an hour, which taxed her mom, a lot more than she let on. By this time she was usually lighting a joint and picking a movie to relax to, before either passing out in her recliner or staggering off to bed.
When it was all done, everyone shook everyone’s hands, and Annie took over hosting duties for long enough to escort them out while her mother excused herself.
“Again, I’m really sorry,” Ed said quietly as the general walked ahead to the car. “We didn’t know. Is it cancer?”
“Yeah, it’s… yeah. It’s not going to get any better. The weed’s for pain, and to help her whole ‘power of positive thinking’ thing. Look, I don’t know if she even has a legal prescription for it. We grow it ourselves.”
“Don’t worry about any of that.”
They shook hands again.
“I’ll be by in the morning,” he said.
“Yeah, hold up. Are you planning to go around in one of those?”
He looked at the car, then back.
“I was. Comes with its own driver, too. It’s all right, right? That cover story of yours has me related to the general, so…”
“No, that’s not going to work. Like I said, don’t insult them. You parked a rental at Betty Lou’s, you should take that.”
Ed laughed. “You know where I’m staying and what I drove into town in. I’m starting to think none of this was actually my idea.”
“Now you’re learning. See you in the morning.”
Inside, her mother had settled back into her chair and was searching her layers for a lighter.
“Well, he seems like a nice boy, dear,” she said.
“Stop it. He’s thirty-four.”
“I can’t wait to tell your father his little girl is working for The Man and being courted by a boy in his thirties. He’ll be thrilled.”
Annie held up a throw pillow as a threat. “You are not allowed to tease me about this.”
“Oh, come on, this is the only fun I get.”
“Did you eat today?”
“I did. Twice.”
“Liar.”
“All right once, but it was a big meal.”
Annie put down the pillow and threw herself on the couch.
“You have to eat, mother.”
“Yes, I know, I know.”
“Oh, and don’t worry, I made sure nobody’s going to say anything about the… you know.”
“The dope? Honestly, who cares any more?”
“Some people do! The army does, I bet.”
“I grow my own plants in my own yard for use in my own house. Let them come. I’ll call the ACLU.”
“Hippie.”
“You are correct. I am too young to be one, but you are still correct. Now, I believe North by Northwest is already in the machine. Will you be joining your mother for a Hitchcock, or would you prefer hiding in your room and writing Eddie Loves Annie on all your notebooks?”
“I swear to God, I will hit you with this pillow, lit joint or no.”
“Ah, such violence. Find me the TV remote, would you?”
Annie started rummaging through the nearest collection of afghans, as this was the most obvious place to check. As she did, a thought occurred.
“Hey, mom, silly question: did we ever watch Porgy and Bess?”
“That’s Gershwin, right? I don’t think so. If we did, it would have been a network airing. I’m sure we don’t own that. Why, did you want to?”
“No. I was just curious.”
7
THE MAN IN THE GRAY FLANNEL SUIT
Dobbs hated using the bathroom in the camper.
It was a funny problem for a man who lived in a camper to have, but it was true. He’d been away from real plumbing for a long time and was growing to despise a lot of things about that fact, including the chem smell, the size of the john, and most especially the part where it had to be emptied regularly.
He had no decent solution to the problem aside from hoping the city would install public bathrooms in the field. (He had petitioned them to do exactly that, and received nothing for his efforts. Not even a port-a-john.) All he could control was the frequency in which the toilet needed emptying, and even then he had only so much say. He could make fewer contributions, certainly, which might cut down on the number of times Art asked him to change it, but it wouldn’t eliminate the part where Dobbs did the changing.
Art asked him to do it every time. There were other things Dobbs had to do—or rather “had to” do, with air quote scare quotes—presumably to offset the expense of giving him a place to stay while awaiting the inevitable, and he didn’t much mind those other things. But the toilet?